Chapter 4

Manhattan in April isn't always gentle. Sometimes, the spring sunshine is like a thin layer of gold leaf, barely covering the cold skeleton of the concrete forest; a single gust of wind reveals the grim rust beneath.

Two days had passed since the engagement dinner. For Clemenza, these two days felt like enduring a long surgical procedure without anesthesia. Her life was rapidly excised and reconstructed; the parts that belonged to the ballet dancer were cut away, filled instead with the synthetic material of "Mrs. Costa"—meaningless socializing, tedious etiquette lessons, and suffocating surveillance.

At this moment, she stood inside the famous Vera Wang flagship store on Madison Avenue. The massive floor-to-ceiling mirror reflected a figure swathed in layers of ivory silk and French lace. This wedding dress was Carmine's personal selection—an off-the-shoulder design with a massive skirt like a blooming cloud, breathtakingly beautiful, yet heavy enough to suffocate.

"Simply perfection, Miss Rossi." The shop assistant, a French woman with exquisite makeup, knelt on the floor with pins in her mouth, adjusting the hem length. "The 'Katherine' looks as if it were made for you. The waistline is cinched just right—flattering to the figure, yet sufficiently dignified."

Clemenza looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was still pale, but under the expensive cosmetics, it took on a porcelain texture. Around her neck, she still wore that heavy diamond necklace, like a glittering dog collar, a constant reminder of her current status.

"It's too tight," Clemenza whispered, her fingers clutching the fabric at her chest. "I feel like I'm going to suffocate."

"It's for the effect, darling," Maria Rossi said with a smile from the sofa, holding a glass of complimentary champagne. "Bear with it. You only need to last a few hours on the wedding day. Just think of how many people will envy you."

Maria looked radiant today; her daughter's marriage seemed to have allowed her to straighten her back in this snobbish circle. She had even gotten a new hairstyle, a dated perm that made her look like a proud turkey.

Standing at the door was not Vinnie from before, but a man named Luca. He was a core member of the Costa family, a man of few words with eyes like a crocodile that had lurked long in the sewers of Naples. He wore a black suit and stood with his back to them before the glass doors, watching the flow of people on the street with vigilance.

Clemenza took a deep breath, the rise of her ribcage ruthlessly suppressed by the corset. Today was Tuesday.

The word flashed in her mind like a warning light. Tuesday. Ivanov. The Metropolitan Opera.

If she did nothing, after tonight, the Costa family would swallow all the underground smuggling routes in Brooklyn. Carmine's power would reach its zenith, and she, the canary, would be locked in this gilded cage forever, with no hope of reprieve.

She had to do something. Not just to resist, but to create chaos. Chaos was a ladder; only when two beasts tore at each other did the prey have a chance to escape.

"I need to use the restroom," Clemenza said suddenly, a tremor in her voice. "I don't feel well. Low blood sugar, maybe."

"Quick, get her some candy!" Maria stood up nervously.

"No need, Mama." Clemenza waved her hand, lifting the heavy skirt. "I just need to splash some water on my face and get some air. This dress... is too hot."

The shop assistant hurried over to help. "Of course, Miss. The restroom is at the end of the hall, to the right."

Clemenza walked toward the hallway. Luca turned around, his gaze locking onto her.

"Luca, are you going to follow me in?" Clemenza stopped and looked back at him, her eyes holding just the right amount of shamed indignation. "Is this also Carmine's order? To watch me even when I use the toilet?"

Luca scanned the hallway leading to the restroom expressionlessly. It was a dead end with no back door; the only window was a narrow ventilation slot not even a cat could squeeze through.

"I will wait at the door, Miss Rossi." Luca stepped back, positioning himself at the entrance of the corridor. "You have five minutes."

Clemenza entered the restroom and locked the door.

She quickly turned on the faucet, letting the rushing sound of water fill the space. Then, from the layers of the intricate skirt—taped to her inner thigh—she ripped off a black object.

It was a disposable burner phone, the cheapest Nokia model available. She had bought it from a roadside newsstand yesterday on the way to mass, during a brief moment when Maria was chatting with the priest. It was the one minute of unsupervised time she had managed to snatch.

Her fingers trembled, and her heart slammed against her chest. She didn't have Ivanov's private number; a boss of that level didn't print his number on business cards. But she remembered an advertisement she saw in the newspaper yesterday—a nightclub in Brighton Beach called "Odessa Nights" was hosting an anniversary celebration. It was Ivanov's headquarters; everyone knew that.

Relying on memory, she dialed the reservation number.

"Odessa Nights, how can I help you?" A female voice with a thick Russian accent answered, blaring electronic music in the background.

"I need to speak to Andrei," Clemenza whispered, using the smattering of broken Russian she had learned in school. Andrei was Ivanov's Christian name.

"There is no one named Andrei here. You have the wrong number." The other party sounded impatient, ready to hang up.

"Listen!" Clemenza switched back to English, her tone becoming urgent and hard. "I am calling from 'the other side.' Tell your boss that tonight at the Metropolitan Opera, the lion has opened its mouth. If he doesn't want to end up a corpse, tell him to stay the hell away from that parking lot."

There was silence on the other end for two seconds, followed by nervous whispering and the sound of a chair scraping.

"Who is this?" The voice became alert.

"Someone who doesn't want to see the lion eat all the meat alone."

Clemenza hung up. She rapidly disassembled the phone, removed the SIM card, snapped it in half, threw it into the toilet, and flushed. Then, she buried the body of the phone deep at the bottom of the trash can filled with paper towels.

Done. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was still pale, but the dead emptiness in her eyes was gone, replaced by a frantic, teetering, yet intensely euphoric light. It was the look she had when executing a high-difficulty turn on stage.

This was just a pebble. She didn't know how big a ripple it would cause in the lake. Perhaps Ivanov wouldn't believe it; perhaps Carmine's men would strike early. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that she had pressed the start button.

She took a deep breath, fixed her hair, put the mask of fragility and obedience back on, and opened the door.

"I'm done," she said to Luca standing at the entrance.

Luca checked his watch. "Four minutes and thirty seconds. Very good."